


Softly, Softly

by SarahCat1717



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Watson, Christmas, First Kiss, Frottage, John Watson back in 221b, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, S3 compliant, Slow Build, a little bit parent!lock, no moriarty, post series 3, pretty much no angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahCat1717/pseuds/SarahCat1717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a very slow coming together. Some moments were awkward and some were quite easy. It was something that felt inevitable coming on the horizon. Each incremental step in their dance was so beautiful in its own small way that there was no rush. </p>
<p>Compliant with S3. Baby Watson is featured, but not a focus of the fic overall. No angst. Set one year after Appledore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softly, Softly

It was coming up on Christmas. It was the first Christmas since the one they spent at Appledore. So much had happened during the course of one year. 

Anna was born in February. John loved her instantly. He loved her so whole-heartedly that it took several days before he put the simple genetic math together and realized that his beautiful daughter’s deep brown eyes could not possibly result from the union of two blue-eyed parents. He and Mary each only had double recessive blue-pigment genes to contribute. The dominant brown-eyed gene must have been contributed from elsewhere. 

It was the last straw for John. This wasn’t a lie that Mary had told to run away from her past. It wasn’t a backed-into-a-corner regrettable gunshot that the victim explained away and forgave. This was a lie that there was no getting over or around. 

John moved back to Baker Street. Mary stayed in the suburbs with Anna. John still considered her to be his daughter. Anna never told a lie and deserved all the love she could get. There was the unspoken understanding that, if Mary’s past should catch up with her, that Anna could use a second parent. It was the last thing that John and Mary ever agreed on together as a team. John got her every other weekend and the occasional weeknight, and a smattering of holidays.

When John moved back in he came home the second night to find a lovely baby cot and a changing table wedged into the third floor bedroom. John thanked Sherlock. Sherlock did him the favor of not mentioning the tears that hung in John’s eyes and instead also informed him that he was having a small cube refrigerator delivered the next day to store bottles and baby food in because he refused to not have experiments in the fridge. 

John laughed and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed by, maybe a wee bit longer than necessary, and set about making tea.

After the first two months back at Baker Street, even though Anna was getting bigger everyday, John stopped bringing up looking for a place of his own. Sherlock never brought it up either. 

There were cases. There were chases. There were crazy texts, lots of take-out, and there were stuffed animals mixed in with crime scene photos on the shared desk space in the sitting room. 

There were not any girlfriends or dates for John. There was no longer the urge to correct people who assumed things about the two flatmates. There was no longer the need to shift away and make room between them when they sat on the sofa or in the taxi. 

It was a very slow coming together. Some moments were awkward and some were quite easy. It was something that felt inevitable coming on the horizon. Each incremental step in their dance was so beautiful in its own small way that there was no rush. 

John had Anna with him for Guy Fawkes Day. John didn’t thank Mary out loud for knowing that he could use the company of Anna on the anniversary of his nearly being burned alive. John woke up that night crying out in his sleep, which awoke the nearby Anna as well. He took her downstairs for a bottle. Sherlock was awake. The two men didn’t exchange so much as a word. John fixed a bottle and two cups of tea. Sherlock played Brahms on his violin. John fell asleep on the sofa with Anna still fussing on his chest. He woke slowly to the sound of Anna cooing and Sherlock’s baritone whispers. The detective paced the floor of the sitting room holding Anna, bobbing as he walked like anyone does instinctually while trying to sooth an infant. He and Anna held private court. She hung on his every word.

Sherlock spoke of John. 

He was telling Anna the stories of “two ridiculous men," but, unlike John’s blog, the stories were skewed to make John the hero. Anna closed her eyes eventually. Sherlock kept right on talking. John kept right on listening. 

“She loves you, you know” John said finally.

Sherlock was genuinely startled to hear John speak, lost as he was in his one-sided conversation with Anna. 

“Infants respond to voices of certain pitch and timbre more favorably than others. It has nothing to do with me,” he replied once he collected himself.

John crossed the room to where Sherlock held Anna to his chest. John put his hand on his daughter’s back, half-covering Sherlock’s hand as well.

“It has everything to do with you.”

John carefully scooped her into his arms to carry her back up to their room. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock”

“John,” called Sherlock when John was at the foot of the stairs. 

Sherlock walked over to where they were. He took a few breaths as if working up to saying something monumental.

“Goodnight, John” Sherlock finally sighed.

The two men stood with eyes locked, the air thick with so much unsaid and yet so close to being said, so much closer to saying it than ever before. 

Anna made a content little noise in her sleep. Sherlock slowly moved his eyes down to the soft bundle in John’s arms. He leaned forward and placed his lips gently to her fine hair.

“And goodnight to you, Anna Watson.”

When John laid back down in his bed that evening, listening to Sherlock play something low and lovely on the violin, he still didn't sleep. But it wasn't due to nightmares. It was due to possibilities.

On Christmas Day the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street enjoyed a subdued but lovely morning. Mrs. Hudson brought up scones, jam and cut ham. John made tea for all. Sherlock, once he surfaced, was just in time for Mrs. Hudson opening her joint present from them, an iPad. John stoked the fire and found Christmas music on the radio when Sherlock, with uncharacteristic patience, showed her how to load aps and set up profiles on several social networking sites. Both men received very soft handmade throw blankets, one to match each of their respective armchairs in the sitting room. There was one for Anna as well with intricate flowers. Mrs. Hudson spoke of how that pattern was "the dickens" to master but how it was worth it for Anna. 

John presented Sherlock with a very fine pair of soft leather gloves and gift set of gourmet honey from across the continent that came in a lovely carved wooden box. Each bottle came with a lengthy description of the flora that the bees had harvested from. Sherlock settled onto the middle of the floor and read each and every one. He overlooked saying thank you, but his rapt attention was enough to let john know that it was appreciated.

John received a trigger lock and lock box for his gun. Sherlock must have seen the articles about gun safety around children in John's search history. It was incredibly thoughtful actually, a blending of two aspects of his life. 

The second gift was a pair of tickets in a cream-colored envelope of heavy paper lined in gold. They were symphony tickets, box tickets actually. They were playing Brahms.

“Young children aren’t usually permitted but I pulled a few strings and they’ll allow Anna as long as she doesn’t cry. Brahms usually has a good affect on her temperament though so I don’t think that will be a problem. Still, they made me buy out the whole box. Do whatever you would like with the other ticket then. Date, or, whatever.” Sherlock mumbled off at the end, still examining his selection of honeys. 

John’s head shot up. 

“You’re coming with us, of course,” said John.

Sherlock’s hands paused hovering over the next jar of honey.

“All right” he agreed casually. 

He turned his head to the clock, but not in time to hide his smile. 

Mrs. Hudson took her leave so she could dress for the trip to her sister’s in the country. She should have left the day before, really, but had insisted in spending the morning with “my boys”.

John straightened up the flat from wrapping paper and breakfast. 

Sherlock progressed to dipping a finger in every jar and tasting the differences with closed eyes. John stopped short in what he was doing and watched the closed-eyed process of identification and recognition and, just maybe, pure enjoyment, dance across Sherlock’s fine features. Even as Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and met John’s gaze, John didn’t look away. Sherlock still had honey dangling from one finger, a drop suspended just on the edge of falling. 

“Would you like to try it? Label says it’s from Greece, fir tree derived.”

John's mouth watered terribly as he ran the scenario through his brain in unforgivingly vivid detail. He could just take those three steps over to where Sherlock sat on the floor, drop to his knees, and taste the honey proffered on Sherlock's long finger. Would Sherlock gasp? Would he give that clever grin? What if John sucked it all off in one go, or what if he swirled his tongue around, lightly, teasingly, just a taste. What if there was honey on his lips as he pulled away. Would Sherlock lean forward and...

John's phone sounded in his pocket. The spell was broken. 

Sherlock quickly cleaned off the honey on his finger in his own mouth, went about carefully placing the jars back in their box. 

Just a second before John's eyes focused on the brief text message, Sherlock mumbled "bloody Mycroft".

Car awaits downstairs.   
If you still plan to pick up Miss Hooper as well, best leave within the hour. -MH

In John's mind, he echoed Sherlock's remark about his brother's unfortunate timing. However, it was Christmas, and he was oddly looking forward to seeing Sherlock's parents again. Hopefully this time everyone could make it through the whole holiday conscious. And John felt good about Molly coming along. She didn't have any family that lived close and often volunteered to work the holidays shifts so that her co-workers with families could celebrate with theirs. 

Not much later they arrived at Molly Hooper’s part of town. She was waiting at the curb, John hopped out to open the door for her. 

"You sure it's okay?" Molly asked for about the 5th time since the initial invitation.

"Of course." John said.

"Last Christmas I brought a street chemist to dinner, drugged my family, stole my brother's laptop full of government secrets and committed a serious criminal offense in front of half the British secret service. You'll be fine." Sherlock said as he offered her a glass of champagne from the mini bar. 

The detective's smile, though cartoonishly big, did reach his eyes with a genuine warmth. John enjoyed seeing the friendship that had evolved between Sherlock and Molly. She still carried a torch for him, all be it a much smaller one, and she wasn't afraid to call him on his shit when need be.

"Oh, so I’m good then,” said the pathologist, gladly accepting the glass. 

On the way there, Molly asked about Sherlock’s parents and their interests so that she would not be without something to talk about. Sherlock spoke extensively about his mother’s work in mathematics. Between John and Molly and a bit more champagne, they cobbled together a rudimentary understanding of it. Mrs. Holmes had also developed an interest in geology in her later years that fueled the couple’s world travels in their retirement. 

John made a mental note to bring up the abandoned copper mine outside of Kabul that his unit took shelter in if the conversation lagged.

Sherlock spoke a little about his father. He spoke slower, and with a hint of reverence, even though his reporting was less detailed.

“He enjoys music. He has an extensive collection of symphony performances on vinyl. He enjoys keeping a garden. He has a greenhouse that he will show anyone at the drop of a hat.”

“Oh good!” said Molly. “I have been thinking of starting some window boxes this year, or maybe even a little garden on my fire escape. Maybe he can give me some pointers.”

Molly charmed Mr. and Mrs. Holmes within minutes. Mrs. Holmes liked to see young professional women making their way in positions that were traditionally held by males. And she seemed to like that Molly was good to Sherlock and inspired some good manners in the youngest Holmes. 

Mr. Holmes did indeed show Molly the greenhouse. She came back laden with several clay pots full of succulents that Mr. Holmes was quite confident Molly’s cats would leave alone. He also said he would pull some strings within the garden society circuit to get her a small plot in the neighborhood garden a few blocks from her flat. 

While Sherlock read the paper and poked around at the samples his mother brought back from the Grand Canyon, and Mycroft sighed heavily and tapped on his mobile every few minutes, John tried to be helpful. He stoked the fires in the several grates throughout the house. He carried dishes back and forth at the bidding of Mrs. Holmes. 

Sherlock wordlessly came up behind the shorter man as John strained to reach a soup tureen from a high shelf. With a smirk, Sherlock easily retrieved the item and handed it down to John. John thought of wiping that smirk off Sherlock’s face with a playful elbow to the ribs if he had not gotten distracted by the lovely warmth of Sherlock all down the line of his back, and the even greater warmth that the familiar close inspired in John’s chest.

But for all the helping John did, he couldn’t help but feel that he was getting a bit of a cold shoulder from the elder Holmeses. Even his story of the copper mine got little more than a polite response from Mrs. Holmes. 

Maybe they didn’t know why he and Mary were no longer together? Maybe they thought him to be a dead-beat father for no longer living with his daughter? It was, of course, entirely up to Sherlock and Mycroft’s discretion as to what their parents knew about the awful bit of business from last Christmas and how the events unfurled from there. So he didn’t push the subject. He hung close to Sherlock and let Molly take center stage as the “good friend”. It was all fine. 

Dinner was wonderful. Even Mycroft and Sherlock both tucked in to enjoy a full plate of wares each. Mycroft reached for seconds and soundly ignored the muttering that Sherlock did about it. It looked like Molly was going to leave with two or three recipes to add to her collection.

“So John,” Mrs. Holmes started unexpectedly, “may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, ma’am!” John responded immediately. He wiped his mouth and sat up a bit straighter, optimistic that he was being addressed at all.

“Are you worthy of my Sherlock’s love for you? All that he has done? The sacrifices he made? Last year he almost gave it all up to protect you and your wife. And here you are, back in his life again like nothing happened.”

“Mother!” Sherlock sputtered. He nearly choked on his food and turned immediately scarlet.

“Hush, boy” reprimanded Mr. Holmes. 

John knew that tone. He ventured a glance at Mr. Holmes and saw a hardness there that he had never expressed in John’s presence before. John may not be an expert at deductions, but he would have wagered good money that Mr. Holmes had a military history. But even if he was wrong, John felt soundly outranked by the man. 

Sherlock recovered from a small coughing fit and looked like he was about to rally. John stilled him with one hand on his arm. Sherlock whipped his head to look at John, embarrassment and anger quickly giving way to confusion. 

John cleared his throat and met the eyes of Mrs. Holmes. 

“No ma’am. To answer your question, no, I am not worthy of your son’s devotion. I’ve always known that. Before his time away and since his return…I…may not always show it. I may get mad sometimes. I may get upset with messes and being left behind and things. But at my most upset I have never, ever, taken for granted that every minute spent knowing Sherlock and being considered his friend is an absolute miracle. He saved me so many times, in so many ways. He continues to, every day. People that know us at a bit of a distance joke around and call me a saint for putting up with him. But the jokes on them, because the honor and privilege is all mine.”

Only when he stopped speaking did John realize he still had his hand on Sherlock’s arm. The man next to him was frozen in place, starting downward at his plate, blinking rapidly. John gave Sherlock’s arm on final squeeze, nodded resolutely to no one in particular, and then picked up his fork to resume his dinner. 

When he next looked up, Molly was barely suppressing a huge smile, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes. Mycroft was nonchalantly unaffected, but perhaps a bit too blatantly nonchalant. 

Sherlock suddenly rose and excused himself. John made motion to remove the napkin from his lap and follow but he was interrupted. 

“Oh let him have a moment, John. He thinks I don’t know he’s going to go smoke in the back garden. Let’s call it my extra Christmas present to him. I believe you told me an interesting tale earlier about a copper mine in the hills of Afghanistan. I’m afraid I was too preoccupied with making dinner to appreciate it. Would you mind repeating it?”

John was torn between wanting to please his suddenly warmer hostess and wanting to check on Sherlock. Mr. Holmes had stood and retrieved a crystal carafe of (very good) scotch from the sideboard and poured John a tumbler full. With a hand on the doctor’s shoulder and a gleam in his eye, the eldest Holmes man urged John to stay put.

So John didn't catch up with Sherlock until dessert was being brought out. He found his friend, like his mother predicted, in the back garden. 

"Your mum said you would be out here. She knows about the smoking, you know." Said John, spying the thin white object held familiarly betwixt Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock turned to face John, held up the object for his closer inspection.

"Peppermint stick, actually, doctor."

"Well, that's unexpected." Said John.

"It's because of your daughter, you know. Last time I snuck a cigarette and then later picked her up, she had a sneezing fit. I think she's allergic. The wool of my coat seems to retain scents rather well, so peppermint it is." Replied Sherlock with a scowl.

John was so touched by the gesture he didn't have words. So instead he just stood by his friend. It wasn't quite cold enough to warrant standing shoulder to shoulder, but he did anyway. John took in the landscape of the countryside. 

He thought back to his statements he made earlier. Every word was the truth. He remembered saying something very similar to Mary last Christmas in the very same house. Then he had chosen the words very carefully, maybe to convince himself of the sentiment behind them as well as convincing her. 

But that was ages ago now. 

"You're wrong you know." Sherlock said to the snow-dusted rolling hills before them.

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyebrows asking the obvious question.

"I'm the lucky one. I'm the one who was saved by you. I don't think for a second that I am worthy of your companionship, but I live everyday trying to be the kind of person you deserve..."

Sherlock's words trailed off when he felt the backs of John's fingers brushing against his. It happened often enough when the walked beside each other on crowded London streets. But this time they were alone and there was clearly intent involved. Sherlock tentatively flexed his hand toward John. Their fingers wove together naturally. 

Sherlock sighed out heavily, a sound that embodied such relief it was as if he had been holding his breath for years. Perhaps he had been.

John didn't remember making the decision to do so, but he stepped in front of Sherlock, never allowing their hands to part. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes, emboldened by the emotion he saw there.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

John wrapped his free hand around the lapel of Sherlock's Belstaff. With just a gentle tug, and lifting up off his own heels, he brought their warm lips together in the cold air.

The kiss was soft and bold all at once. Their lips moved against each other with a natural ease not unlike how the two men found that they fit into each other's lives. There was no desire to hurry. There was perfection to be reveled in, there was no place for rushing. 

Just as naturally as it started, the kiss finally did part. The two men opened their eyes at the same time. Sherlock smiled with such bright intensity John felt that the snow around them might melt. His eyes danced over John’s face like a blind man granted his vision. John started to laugh. The memory of the first night of their friendship came mind, the two of them leaning on the wall just inside Baker Street, laughing at their own shared wild insanity. It was like they were new again. The heart ache of the past was not forgotten, but this new beginning healed it deeper than either of them ever thought possible. 

John was still laughing when Sherlock wrapped both his arms roughly around John’s waist and pulled his close and buried his face in John’s neck. John felt Sherlock’s persistent smile against his skin, even though the detective’s voice may have cracked as he spoke. 

“I get to do this now. John, how many times I wanted to…”

Sherlock breathed in John deeply, deeply, and held him tighter yet. John responded by threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and pulling him closer. God, his curls were like silk. 

Sherlock nuzzled aside John’s scarf and his mouth latched wetly onto John’s neck, tasting and worshipping. His hands fanned out on John’s back. John’s grip reluctantly shifted out of Sherlock’s hair and onto the back of his neck. It was out of sheer necessity, as his knees seemed to lose all control. Sherlock made his way up neck to jaw, then hovered just above John’s slack, panting mouth.

“Merry Christmas, John Watson” Sherlock purred, his lips brushing John’s as he spoke. 

If their first kiss was the long-hidden ember that finally became a flame, then their second kiss was a complete conflagration. Sherlock devoured John with his kiss like a starving man who was just granted access to a feast. Luckily, John was famished as well. With the contact of tongue on tongue, the entry and retreat of every seeking thrust, they burned their past doubt and misunderstandings to the ground. 

“Sherlock? Jo-oh! Oh! Umm? Well, I’ll just…Ah!”

Molly turning on her heel so quickly when she came upon the pair that she slipped and fell right onto her bum. It may have been the thin layer of snow on the flagstone path. It may have been the champagne, the wine, and the more-rum-than-cake rum cake that she had as dessert. 

Both men ran to her side and hefted her up. Her face was still red from embarrassment and her ankle a wee bit swollen when they entered the car a short time later, using Ms. Hooper’s slight injury as a welcome excuse to bring the holiday visit to a close. Molly sat in the back of the plush limo with her foot elevated and iced as John and Sherlock bid farewell to the rest of the Holmes clan. Mrs. Holmes hugged John, a significant different from the frosty welcome he had received earlier. Lingering handshakes were exchanged with both Mr. Holmes and, surprisingly, Mycroft as well. The boot was filled with presents, Molly’s new plants, and enough Christmas leftovers to last them until the New Year. 

Molly quickly fell asleep on the return ride home. Sherlock removed his gloves (wearing the new ones from John already) and crept his hand closer to John. John took it in his immediately and brought it to his mouth for a kiss. John tried not to giggle too loudly, so as not to wake Molly, when the simple affection made Sherlock gasp and turn red in the cheeks. They passed the rest of the ride in silence, each stealing looks at the other, knowing that if they locked eyes for too long it would be difficult to complete the ride comfortably given the lack of privacy. 

After getting an injured and sleepy Molly, her plants, and a good portion of the food into Molly’s 2nd floor flat, and then having to wrestle Molly’s very stubborn and very spry cat from the 3rd floor landing back into Molly’s sitting room, the duo were finally on their way back to Baker Street. 

They each removed their coats. John put away the food properly and turned on the kettles while Sherlock built a fire.

"You even turned on the fairy lights. Feeling especially festive are we?" John teased as he handed Sherlock his cup.

"I'm starting to see the charm of Christmas, I suppose." Replied Sherlock.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea then placed it on the side table. He threaded his fingers together with John's, appeared to be immediately transfixed with the simple point of contact. John followed suit, set his cup down next to Sherlock's. 

"Not in the mood for tea, then" John remarked.

"Obviously" Sherlock said, bringing John's hand up and wrapping it close to his own chest, his other coming to rest softly, softly, on John's lower back, as if still disbelieving that taking such liberties was allowed. 

John brought his free arm to wrap around Sherlock, just over his shoulder blades. They each stepped at the same moment. They were several steps in when Sherlock spoke, his lips against John’s temple.

“Dance with me? Please?”

The “please” did John in. 

“I think we already are, even though there’s no music,” he finally managed to say.

“Yes there is.” Sherlock countered. “Always with you, John. I hear it everywhere.”

Their slow circles around their sitting room never missed a beat. 

John noticed it as Sherlock shifted closer.

“You’re shivering Sherlock. Are you cold?”

“No. I’m just…I’m just happy.”

John held Sherlock’s hand tighter in his. He drew back just enough to look up into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Sherlock, take me to bed?”

Sherlock’s perfect lips parted with a quick intake of breath. He stood dumbfounded for long seconds. John felt one side of his own mouth creeping up. He finally found a way to strike Sherlock speechless. 

The two walked hand in hand to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock closed the door behind them. He turned toward John, who was already removing his jacket and placing it on a chair. Sherlock followed, his suit jacket placed over John’s. They both smiled shyly as they toed off their shoes. Sherlock paused, facing John, his hands flexing at his sides as if he was flitting through a million possibilities as to what to do with them first. John breached the distance between them, took one of Sherlock’s wrists in his hands to unbutton Sherlock’s cuffs. As he reached up to the buttons on the front a moment later, Sherlock roused himself enough to undo John’s cuffs.

Shirts, belts and trousers were each removed with care. After John put their trousers over the top of the chair with the other clothes he sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock walked over tentatively. John was smiling until his eyes were drawn to the small but still deep pink circle on Sherlock’s chest. He pulled a pained face, put his hand up to rest on that place where Mary’s bullet ripped through. Sherlock took another step closer, stood between John’s bent knees. He reached down and ran his fingers over the ruined and twisted tissue of John’s exit wound scar on the back of his left shoulder. 

And just like that, those scars were just parts of the story that brought them to this moment. John replaced his hand with his lips, his tongue, his breath. He re-painted the landscape of Sherlock’s flesh with his attentions. Sherlock’s hands ran up John’s neck and carded into his gold and silver hair. John slid both his hands down the back of Sherlock’s pants and pressed a smile onto Sherlock’s hip bone as the taller man responded with an undignified noise. 

John took the noise as encouragement. He pulled Sherlock's pants down in one motion, then slid back from being perched in the edge of the bed to being seated properly. With one hand behind Sherlock's knee, he guided the lanky object of his affections to straddle him. They found each other's mouths immediately, both moaned into the kiss and the skin on skin contact. Sherlock's hands were everywhere at once, running from John's face to his neck, his chest and back. John's hands roamed slower but with more pressure over Sherlock's thighs and arse and lower back. Sherlock spread his kneeling stance wider, dropped properly into John's lap. The sensation of hardness touching hardness for the first time, separated only by the thin fabric of John's pants, shook them both. Their was a break in the action, just both panting into each other's lips, trying not to reach the peak too soon, both so close already. 

Sherlock experimentally rolled his hips forward once, his length fitting perfectly next to John's. John fell back into the bed, taking Sherlock with him. There was more kissing, more desperate and deep with every moment. John gripped Sherlock's hips hard, hard enough to bruise, and growled low in his throat. Sherlock moved again, this time was met by John surging up from the bed as well.

“What do you want, Sherlock? Tell me how. Anything for you…” John gasped as the two of them rocked together.

Sherlock licked deeply into John’s mouth one more time before responding.

“Off” he finally said.

Sherlock moved from his position on top of John to kneel on the floor in front of him, where John’s feet still hung off the bed. Captain John Watson actually whined at the loss of warmth and flesh and mouth as Sherlock slithered down his body to rid John of his pants. But then Sherlock locked eyes with John as he dipped his head. The feel of his tongue on John’s erect cock was like fireworks. One long swipe from base to tip followed by another. Sherlock ran his hands up John’s thighs, his right then dropping to embrace and gently tug on John’s bullocks. Sherlock then opened his lips and took John into his mouth as far as he could, dragging back up to the head with just the right pressure and a flick of the tongue. 

John fisted the sheets so hard that some distant barely functioning practical portion of his brain feared he might rip them. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. That’s amazing. God you’re fucking gorgeous,” he panted.

Even in the low light of the bedroom John could see the flush that rushed to Sherlock’s cheeks and neck at the praise. His eyes lit up with arousal but also a soft vulnerability. John flashed back to the first time he ever told Sherlock he was amazing, how surprised the man was. He thought of Sherlock’s endearing but crazy declaration that he wasn’t worthy of John. 

“Beautiful. My beautiful Sherlock” John whispered. 

John ran his hands lightly through Sherlock’s curls as the man lavished John’s length with loud, wet, sucking kisses. Sherlock closed his eyes. John’s heart swelled. He had been nearly killed in a desert in Afghanistan. He had mourned the loss of his soul mate for two years. He married a woman who lied and lied to him. And yet, in this moment, with Sherlock on his knees working magic with his mouth and hands and looking like he was in heaven because John called him beautiful, John felt like the luckiest man in the world. 

“Sherlock, come here. Please, Sherlock. That’s brilliant but I want to do this together, yeah?”

John finally scooted all the way onto the bed. Sherlock climbed on top of him. His arms and legs and eyes caged John in but he didn’t feel trapped, he felt embraced in every sense of the word. 

John licked his hand once, twice. Sherlock watched the motion intently. John brought his hand between them and took them both in his grasp. Between John’s saliva, Sherlock’s, and the pre-cum that both of them were producing, it was slick and perfect. 

Sherlock bowed his body and buried his head in the crook of John’s neck. 

“John, John, ahh!” he mumbled and breathed.

“This okay, love? Or did you want to…”

“Say that again.” Sherlock interrupted, suddenly still.

“Is this okay?” John repeated.

Sherlock sighed then sucked in a breath and held it.

“No, the other part. You called me…”

“Love. I called you love. You like that?” John teased, turning his head enough to nibble Sherlock’s ear. 

But Sherlock held still even when John moved his hand again. He still also had not exhaled.

“Sherlock?” John asked, willing his voice to be calm.

“Was it just a word? Or do you…” the incomplete question hung in the air between them. John felt terrible for the teasing lilt to his voice the moment before. 

“Sherlock? Look at me, please.” 

Sherlock slowly raised his head and met John’s eyes. He looked so young and open and out of his depth. 

“I love you, Sherlock.” John said resolutely, his clear voice sounding almost too loud for the hush of the dim bedroom.

John rocked slowly up into his fist, still wrapped around the both of them. Sherlock exhaled, finally, and matched his movement on the next stroke. 

“And I want you to know, it’s always been you. You were my first choice. You were my gold standard to which everyone else was compared from the day we met, and no one else ever came close. Can’t tell you how many times I almost called you ‘love’ just walking around the flat or pacing around a crime scene. All right?” John managed to say in between gasps.

The momentum was building, both of them sweating. Sherlock licked his own hand generously and wrapped it around them opposite John’s hand. He lowered his body onto John more and almost every surface nerve fired in both of them, inspired by the flesh of the other. 

They hadn’t looked away. The intimacy of keeping eye contact through sex was something that used to embarrass John, but with Sherlock it was like being consumed by fire and the sweet relief of being cooled all at the same time. A smile crept across Sherlock’s features, replacing the apprehension that had been there. 

“Say it again”

A soft kiss.

“Say it again, John”

Another soft kiss, just the hint of a flick of tongue.

“My love” said John.

A nibble and suck on that ridiculous, perfect upper lip.

“My mad, beautiful, genius, love”

The sounds Sherlock started to make were incredible. His baritone rumbled through both of their chests. He moaned and whimpered and strengthened his grip. They were building towards release in tandem.

“John! Oh, John! My John!” 

“It’s all right, love! I’m with you!”

Sherlock’s body stretched tight like a violin string but only for a moment, then he was crying out and his whole body moving in undulating waves that were not of his own volition. He was spilling between their bodies. But his eyes were locked with John’s and his lips were fumbling and searching to try to kiss John, even as his body and mind were short-circuiting from the pleasure of it all. John was suddenly there as well. The ecstasy that he witnessed in Sherlock was too much to not follow him into the fall. 

And when their breaths slowed again, and they found each other’s mouths again, they caught each other. 

They caught each other, and realized that they had been catching each other for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> For those who may have spotted it, the bit about Sherlock shivering and then saying it was because he was happy was "borrowed" from the movie Say Anything. I just couldn't shake that image. 
> 
> Also, the name of the fic makes reference to the Mark Gatiss interview in which he speaks of how introducing queer relationships to main stream media is most effectively done "softly, softly" so that it is just naturally part of the narrative (or at least that's how I understood his point to be). I always thought it was a good way to describe how Sherlock and John could come together finally. 
> 
> So thanks again! I LOVE comments, even if it is months after I posted, so please do take a moment to write some feedback if you feel moved to do so.


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